Ghosts in the Pages
by KrimsonKitsu
Summary: Set after COE. Haunted by the taunts of Rhiannon, Gwen sets out to learn more about the man she thought she'd known. Just what was Torchwood's fix-it man hiding, and what will it mean to those he left behind?
1. The Prelude

~~~~~~~xXx~~~~~~~

History books—if any history was to be written about Torchwood-Cardiff—would say that it died when the government turned on us; when they bombed the hub. But if you asked us—Jack and I… we'd say differently.

Torchwood died the day we buried Ianto Jones.

And now, standing outside of his sister's flat, her words reverberating in my chest like a punch, I couldn't help but wonder just how right she is.

"_Did you know my brother at all?"_

Two months ago I would have known the answer to that, but now? I lean against the car, one of Rhys', and try to remember the sound of his laugh—the exact color of his favorite shirt.

I've worked with him for nearly three bloody years; we stayed up late, pouring over the research and CCTV and climbing through the sewers. We argued and bantered through our assignments. And we followed Jack. And we—

Unbidden, the image of Ianto, cold and lifeless and laid out against the tile floor, flashed before me. It is accompanied, always accompanied, by the familiar ache, the grief that threatens to choke the air from my lungs. And the terrible knowledge that this is what comes from following Jack Harkness. This is where we all will end up one day… a sacrifice to the altar of Torchwood.

But this time there's something else. This new uncertainty…. I close my eyes, trying to conjure up his smile, trying to remember to detect what I must have missed before…. Was there something else he was keeping from us?

All those times and I never imagined…

What on earth could Ianto Jones have been hiding?

Just who was he?

~~~~~~~xXx~~~~~~~

((Ok, also a bit short but I promise, this is only the beginning… mostly because I really wanted to explore that last tantalizing tidbit about our favorite tea boy. Please read and let me know what you think. Also this is my first try at Gwen's POV so please, forgive me ))


	2. A Ghost Returns

((Part two… I'm feeling a bit better about writing for Gwen. I hope you all like it.))

~~~~~~~xXx~~~~~~~

It looked so plain- just another white door to just another flat on just another floor. There were people, whispering as they passed; no doubt wondering just what it was I was getting at, staring at a door like a loon.

Problem was, I wasn't exactly sure what I _was_ getting at.

It took me about seventeen tries to pick the lock and about thirty-two more to open the door. And now, here I am, standing in a musty a flat that still smells like him. It's been a couple of weeks now and no one has tried to come. Not me, not Jack… I haven't even seen Jack since…

Aside from the dust that layers the surfaces like snow, the flat is just so….Ianto that it physically makes me nauseous. The rooms just seem so clean, so modernly spare, that I can almost imagine him stepping in, perhaps shaking of the last of the rain and sloughing off his shoes.

God… How am I supposed to pack this away? I can't. Not when he'll be right back in, Ianto has always been so particular over his things and if he came in and found them all put away he'd be furious and—

"Gwen?"

I look up (when did I sit down?) and at first I'm sure it's just another ghost. It would make sense—lately I can't think of one of them without the other.

"Jack?"

It certainly looks like Jack. Coat and all. He's paler than I remember, lost a bit of weight too, I imagine, and I don't remember his eyes being quite so dulled.

"When did you—"

"About ten minutes before you did," he says, his mouth twisting into a mirthless smile. "I ended up back around these parts and well… the Hub was the only place I had. So now that's it's gone…" Jack shrugs, looking about the place. "It was Ianto who insisted I had a house key. He said it might be a bit of a nice change, 'not sleeping' on his bed, instead of 'not sleeping' on the Hub's couch."

"Jack…"

"It's fine, I'm not staying," there's that empty smile of his again. "Too many memories here, Gwen. I just figured I'd stop in for a quick shower."

"And then what? You were going to just pop in and leave without saying a bloody word?" I get up, the heat burning in my chest. "Jack Harkness, you bastard." I'm gonna slug him; I'm going to send him flying. Because he's standing there, solid and normal and I want him to stay, to be the anchor, the one who pulls me from the edge. But his eyes… they aren't Jack… they belong to a broken man.

"I couldn't," he says, cutting apart my anger like a steel knife. "I just…." He slides down into a stool beside the island.

I sit down beside him. And we sit in silence. What on earth can be said?

"I miss him too."

Jack looks up and I know he's thinking the same damned thing I am. _That's it? That's what you come up with? _I can't stand the look in his eyes so I do what I always do in uncomfortable spots, I babble.

"I-erm… I went to see his sister the other day, and we got to talking…" I look up, and just as I thought, he is barely paying any attention, his eyes seem focused on the room beyond this one, the bedroom. I flush, feeling as though I've walked into something intimate. So I continue as though I've seen nothing. "We got to talking about Ianto and I mentioned his father…" Jack lowers his head and chuckles, actually chuckles.

"He really was fond of him," Jack murmurs, and I see his eyes crinkle in the first smile I've seen since Ianto died. "The Master Tailor."

I almost don't want to continue.

"Thing is… that's not what Rhiannon said…." I look away, but I can still feel Jack's eyes on me. "She said… Ianto lied about his father. She said… she said I didn't know him all, Jack."

Jack stills; I can feel his muscles tense beside me. More silence. I fiddle with a mug on the island—Ianto must have taken in down before being called in. The pattern seems at ends with the minimalist décor, where on earth did he get it? Seems like a gag gift from Owen—is that why he kept it?

"Why are you bringing this up?" Jack finally murmurs, and for the craziest moment, I think he means the sodding cup. "What does it matter to you what his father did?"

His reply knocks me back. "You… don't you want to _know_?" I demand. "Why would Ianto lie about something like that? What else could he have been lying about? Jack, what if…. What if the Ianto we know is…"

"Is what? Just an act?" Jack stands up and I know what's coming. He's pacing the floors and I can feel the anger, the grief welling up in him. He spins back to me, his eyes hard. "No."

"Jack—"

"No." Jack repeats, breathing heavily. "Gwen, I was with Ianto when he died," he says, fists curling at his sides. "No way was it was an act… I know him, Gwen. I know him. Please, just… just let it go. Don't dig on this. "

"But…" I stop, not sure how to reply. "I need to know… I need to know that I really knew him. It'll drive me crazy, Jack."

Jack sighs and looks around, his eyes roaming the small collection of rooms. "Fine." He breathes, looking as though the life has been drained from him. "Fine…" He digs into his coat and tosses a book in my direction. It lands on the island, the sound reverberating through the apartment.

"Is this?"

Jack nods. "His diary," he says, his voice tight. "I found it but… can't bring myself to invade his privacy… " He sighs again. "See you, Gwen."

"Jack!"

But he's already gone, the door slamming shut behind him. Suddenly the apartment feels worse than before. It's profane, I realize suddenly. Here I am, standing in Ianto's kitchen, holding his most intimate possession to my chest. I shouldn't be here; I shouldn't be here because Ianto shouldn't be dead. I bite back another sob, looking down at the leather bound book. It feels cool against my hands and the smell of him nearly bowls me over. It seems to accuse, to demand the exact same question I keep asking myself.

Just what in the hell am I doing?


	3. The First Day

Rhys is home. I can hear him enter, mumbling about his day… after all that had happened, it doesn't seem real. After all, how could he deal with anything so everyday when our world has been blown apart. How can he still talk about realtors, about taxes and moving signs and traffic? It all seems so insignificant compared to the giant hole that seemed to have opened up right in the center of everything? Why isn't he moving slower, burdened by the memory of it all.

It takes me a minute to realize, he isn't struggling because it wasn't our world that was torn to shreds, it was just mine…

The journal feels like a weight in my hands. The cover is dry against my slick hands. I'm not ready for this. This is the last link I have left to the man that had been such a fixture in my life. This is the only part that is completely and brutally him and I'm not ready. My chest constricts, I curl inward, bowed by the weight of it all. The carpet blurs in front of me, until I can no longer see the individual fibres. My heart pounds viciously in my chest, sending reverberations down my arms and stomach—I feel sick.

I want to hear his voice, I want him to be here, to step in, to berate me for even considering what I'm about to do. I would gladly sit through whatever he could throw at me, because Ianto hurling insults is still better than no Ianto at all.

That's what finally convinces me to do it—the inane hope that the action will do what countless hours of prayer, of pleading, of anger could not.

Outside the door, Rhys is fixing dinner. The smell wafts over me as I finally lift the cover as tenderly as one might a bible.

xXx

_Page 1:_

_Two minutes into work and I know one thing for certain; Jack Harkness is not my boss' name. It's too catchy, it just rolls off the tongue. Captain Jack Harkness. No man this charming can have a name like that. Definitely made up then._

_I was prompt. Something this "Jack Harkness" doesn't fail to notice. Apparently it is a rare quality among the workers here and so I made a note to slowly edge my arrival time from 8 to 8:15. The last thing I need his more of his attention. He drummed his hand on the front desk, and I counted off the rhythm as he goes on about importance of keeping up a realistic front here. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three. _

"_This isn't Canary Warf, we don't need any added attention," he pointed out as the cadence of his fingertips increased in speed. He went as far as to question my choice in wearing such extravagant clothes until I pointed out that his military coat and SUV emblazoned with TORCHWOOD would attract far more prying eyes than my Marks and Spencers. He seemed to pout—actually pout—at this, before making the announcement that I look better in a suit anyhow. His eyes though… they were guarded… I'd made a mistake and he was suspicious of this new cheek. It was a mistake and I really must learn to control myself if I hope to slip under this man's radar. He is far more observant than I had imagined, and seemed to have taken a particular set against me. I won't be able to fool him so easily._

_Jack apparently decided that I was " too Torchwood for the newbie's tour" and so we skipped the pomp. Perhaps this was still more of Jack's reluctance to have me aboard, but it suited me just fine. The sooner I can disappear into the background the sooner I can transfer Lisa. I haven't figured out the how just yet, but once I am in Jack's blindspot, the mechanics should be simple enough. Until then, I have a part to play. I can tell that Jack has no idea what to think of me. All throughout my tour, I caught the looks he gave me, I saw the calculations playing out behind that smirk of his; he is trying just as hard to figure me out as I am him._

_This could be tricky. I'm not sure I can keep up the act. Before it was desperation—a last ditch plan formed from rumors heard around Torchwood One's water coolers. Jack Harkness will chase anything so long as he thinks he can get in its pants, so I'd been told. At least that's one rumor that turned out to have some truth to it. But I'm a bit worried—I've never played gay before… what if he picks up on my discomfort, my robotic replies? I caught Jack looking back at me again and I'm still not sure what I saw reflected there… doubt? Concern? I tried so hard to catch his eye; all of that time I planned and I schemed and I became whatever he needed me to be. But what if I fail?_

_What a stupid question. I know exactly what will happen. My success rests solely on my ability to manipulate this enigma of a man. This man who hired me for no logical reason. This man who seems to distrust me inherently. _

_Lis always took pride in my ability to work with people, to get them to do what I want. Funny how now her life depends on it. (And my life depends on her.) _

_Not much else to remark on today, regarding work. I got acquainted with their coffee machine (a pathetic little brewer that Jack had unearthed second-hand) and with my "work-station" (a cluttered and cramped front office where I am to run interference for any incoming tourists. Two of their members were out on an assignment. But I did meet their doctor, a man with a ferret-like face who goes by the name of Owen Harper. Seems like a wanker to me._

xXx

By the time Rhys comes to call me for dinner, I'm curled over the book, shaking with either laughter or tears, I'm not sure which.


End file.
